


Broken and Mended

by Ernmark (M_Moonshade)



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Bouquet fic, Broken Bones, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, With lots of hurt, and Rilla being the badass that she is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-17 10:05:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11273271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/Ernmark
Summary: When Damien and Arum fight their last duel, things go very wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> wastrelwoods asked:  
> are you up for writing anymore second citadel ot3 stuff at the moment? maybe some hurt/comfort? I'm very excited about them
> 
> And I'm excited to write about my darling Bouquet. (Get it? Because they're a Honeysuckle, Amaryllis, and Arum Lily? I love ship names)

There is only one way this ends. They both know it. 

They whirl and twist around each other with blades drawn, but there’s no animosity in it. No brutality. They barely touch each other. 

Damien doesn’t strike to wound, but to kill– and to kill quickly. Painlessly, as much as he is able. If he isn’t destined to survive this fight, then he doesn’t want to leave Lord Arum maimed or dying of infection.

He feels the wind as claws pass within a hair’s breadth of his skin, and he knows Arum has decided the same. He sees resignation in those violet eyes, and the beginnings of grief.

This is goodbye. No matter how this ends, it is goodbye. He would give anything for the chance to say the words aloud, but he can’t. He can’t. Not when Sir Angelo and Rilla are standing at the edge of the clearing. 

He spots an opening between those claws, just over Lord Arum’s heart. One swift strike, and Lord Arum will be dead in seconds. 

He lunges for that delicate spot just between the ribs, but Lord Arum catches on too soon. He whirls around, lashing at Damien with his tail and knocking him aside.

There’s a sound of something cracking. A sharp pain in his leg.

And then he lands, and the cast around his leg snaps in half, and his broken leg takes the whole of his weight. 

His vision blurs red as a scream rips from his throat. His whole world collapses into a single point of white-hot agony, and he curls around it, clutching at his thigh as though there’s some kind of thorn he could pull from his skin, but he can’t. The wound is inside of him. 

Distantly he’s aware of a shape looming over him, and he feels scaly hands on his skin, and he goes still.

This is the end, isn’t it? Lord Arum is going to take the opportunity to end this once and for all. It will be quick– a mercy killing– one swift cut to make the pain stop. He stares into Lord Arum’s eyes, silently pleading with him to get it over with.

 There’s nothing monstrous about the horror in those eyes.

“Get away from Sir Damien, you beast!” He only barely registers the bellow as words and then Lord Arum is thrown aside, barreled down by Sir Angelo.

Rilla takes his place at his side. “Damien, your leg…” She cups his face in her callused hands. “I need to see it. I need to make sure the break hasn’t severed anything. It’s going to hurt, Damien.”

He tries to keep his voice light. “I hardly think it can be any worse than it is.”

He’s wrong. 

Rilla tries to be gentle, but the agony is all-consuming. Tears pour from his eyes. He struggles not to writhe out of her grip, but he throws his head to the side, swallowing back the kind of profanity no knight should utter. In a roiling sea of pain, he finds a single focal point to cling to: across the clearing, Sir Angelo is finishing the duel with Lord Arum. It’s hardly a duel anymore, not when it’s so one-sided. As he watches, Sir Angelo lifts the lizard over his head and hurls him into a tree. Lord Arum lands hard, gasping for air, one arm tucked protectively against his chest. Before he can gather himself to his feet again, he’s thrown back by a punch that could crush stone.

“Stop,” he whimpers.

“I’m sorry,” Rilla says. “I know it hurts, but I’m almost finished.”

“No– Sir Angelo.” He grabs at her sleeve. “He has to stop. Please don’t let him do this.”

Because this– what he’s doing to Lord Arum– is no mercy killing. It is the rage of a man who has seen his best friend in pain and demands revenge. It is as passionate as it is cruel. 

Damien stares pleadingly up at Rilla, and she meets his gaze with a look of confusion– until they hear the sound of cracking bones. In a fluid motion she rises to her feet and strides across the clearing. Neither of the fighters– the knight and his prey– see her approach.

“Knights! Attention!” Her voice is infused with such power that for a moment she truly does sound like the Queen. Instinctively, Sir Angelo straightens and salutes. Even Damien, prone and in agony and staring at the speaker, feels the need to obey. “Who do you serve?” 

“The Queen!” Sir Angelo barks back.

“And who do you serve above her?”

“The citizens of the Second Citadel!”

“And this citizen is telling you to _stand down_.”  

Sir Angelo steps back, his face a mask of confusion, caught between lingering rage and years of knightly training and the fact that this is very clearly just Rilla, just some herbalist, and not his Queen.

Lord Arum tries to crawl away, but he can’t escape unseen.

“Stay where you are. I’m not finished with you.”

Perhaps he knows better than to disobey, or perhaps he’s just that badly injured, but Lord Arum does as he’s told.

Rilla returns to Damien’s side, but the air of authority hasn’t left her. “Sir Angelo, go into the woods and find me something to make another splint. Straight, as wide around as two of your fingers, and as long as his leg. Bring me three.” 

“Yes, Sir–” He catches himself a syllable too late. “Yes, Rilla.” He only hesitates for a moment before he goes on his search.

“You,” she says, pointing to the remaining combatant. “Come here.”

Lord Arum creeps closer, eyeing her warily. “Are you the Queen?”

“ _I’m an herbalist_ ,” she says with such finality that it sounds a few ranks above royalty. “Hold him down. The bone needs to be reset, and he’s going to hurt himself even worse if he starts thrashing.”

Lord Arum meets Damien’s eyes with puzzlement, and then with a sudden understanding.

“ _Your Rilla_ ,” he recalls in a mutter.

“Yes, I’m Rilla,” she says, misunderstanding. “Now hold him down.” 

Carefully he lowers himself over Damien. One of his arms still looks unusable, but he only needs three to pin down Damien’s shoulders and uninjured leg. His grip is gentle, but unyielding, and he has the whole of his tremendous weight behind it. 

“Are you ready, Damien?” Rilla asks.

“Yes, I– gah!” he doesn’t have the chance to finish the sentence before he’s overwhelmed again by blinding pain. His back arches off the ground, but there’s no breaking Lord Arum’s hold. But as abruptly as it begins, the worst of the pain subsides like the flowing of the tide.

“That’s good, Damien,” she says gently. “The hard part is over.” 

Lord Arum shifts his weight slightly, easing it off Damien. “Am I finished here?”

“You have some explaining to do.” She draws a dagger from Damien’s belt, and it glints between them like polished silver. Instinctively, Lord Arum curls protectively over Damien. “Like how long the two of you have had this… thing going on between you?” 

Damien’s blood runs cold, and for a desperate moment he wishes she were setting his bone again.

Lord Arum’s tail thrashes the forest floor. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“I’m not an idiot,” she says, staring him down as if he wasn’t twice her size and in possession of razor claws. 

Damien can already feel panic coming on. This can’t be happening. “Rilla, I– I didn’t– I wouldn’t–”

“I know you didn’t.” She slices into the hem of her skirt, cutting off a long strip of fabric. “That’s why you two keep trying to kill each other, isn’t it? And why you keep looking at each other like you’re the leads in a tragedy?” 

Panic generously takes a half step to the side to make room for mortification. Was he really that obvious?

Lord Arum seems to feel the same way. “Of all the overblown–”

“It ends here,” she says icily. “No more duels, and no more pretending, and no more self-flagellation. I don’t care what you two do or don’t do, but I will not stand by and let you keep killing yourselves trying to murder each other. Whatever it is you two need to figure out, just figure it out already.”

A crashing in the distant underbrush announces Sir Angelo’s return.

“Could–” Damien swallows. “Could we do that… later, perhaps?” This is a conversation he’d rather not have in front of his best rival.

“Later. But we _will_ have this conversation.” She gives Lord Arum a meaningful look, in case he thought he could possibly escape it. He rather suspects he won’t have any similar opportunities.

* * *

The infirmary was terrible enough when Damien only had to contend with boredom– now it’s nearly intolerable. Every unoccupied moment is filled with his own frantic thoughts– his heart is a traitor– his engagement to Rilla is surely broken– he failed in the duel– traitor that he is, he’s relieved that he failed, and disgusted by that relief– how will he ever look Sir Angelo in the eyes again?– Lord Arum is hurt, and it’s all his fault–

He isn’t sure how long he’s been caught in the whirlwind of his mind, but the orderlies are gone and the infirmary is quiet. The only sign of time passing is sun low on the horizon and the creak of an opening door.

“Damien?” Rilla peeks inside. “Are you awake?”

Relief and fear and guilt and shame flood his senses with renewed vigor. 

“Oh, my Rilla, my Amaryllis, my forever-flower–” The words tumble out of his mouth so fast that they crash into each other and land in a complete mess. “There are no words for how– for how _sorry_ I am for what I’ve put you through. I’ve acted horribly toward you, and I cannot give voice to my shame.” 

She crosses the room to sit at his bedside. “It’s okay.”

“It isn’t! I’ve endangered you–”

“If I was worried about danger, Damien, I would live inside the city walls.” 

“I’ve betrayed you! And for that, Rilla– for that–”

“How, though?” she asks softly.

It’s such an absurd question that it leaves him dumb. “What?”

“How did you betray me?”

“With– with my thoughts. With these feelings. With– with my hesitation in my duty when I knew–”

“You mean because you didn’t kill someone you fell in love with?”

The truth of it stings. “A monster,” he says weakly. “Rilla, I love you– I swear to you, I never intended to let my feelings stray–”

“Do you love me, though?” she asks earnestly.

“Of course I do. But Rilla–”

“Shhh,” she murmurs. “One thing at a time. You love me.”

“ _Always_.”

“And him?”

He averts his eyes. “I… I believe so.”

Rilla twines her fingers with his. “You tried to tell me, before I was kidnapped. Do you remember? When I saw you out in the woods with that giant rat. You were talking about your treacherous heart. And about how you needed to kill him.”

It seems so long ago now– almost weeks ago, though it’s only been a few days.

“You’re allowed to have feelings for him, Damien. You’re allowed to think about him. You don’t need my permission, but you have it.” She tips his chin up to face her. “What you aren’t allowed to do is torment yourself about it anymore. Not for my sake.”

His racing heart begins to slow. “Rilla…”

“If you’re in love with him, then pursue him.”

“No.” He shakes his head, his heart aching. “Rilla, I don’t want to lose you.”

“I didn’t say you had to.” She brings her face close to his. “You have me. No matter who else you do or don’t have, you will always have me.”

His shoulders sag under the weight of her words. His breath falls like it’s squeezed out of him.

She pulls back. “Are you alright, Damien?”

“I’m a– a little dizzy,” he confesses. 

She smiles fondly and presses a kiss to his lips, short and chaste, and a second to his forehead. “Then I should let you rest.”

“I– I love you, Rilla.” 

She gives his hand one last squeeze. “I love you, too.”

* * *

The sky is dark and the moon is high when Damien is pulled out of his dream. It takes him a few moments to get his bearings: he’s in the Citadel, in the infirmary, and he’s alone– or he would be, if not for the sounds of struggle coming from just outside the window.

“Who’s there?” he asks, his voice low. In reply the moon and stars are blotted out by the mass of a body and the fluttering of a cape. The sounds of scraping claws and heavy breathing are joined by a familiar rattle. “Lord Arum.”

“Still awake, honeysuckle?” his visitor rasps between panting. 

It’s almost strange to feel that fondness for him without the guilt that follows after. “A knight of the Citadel never sleeps.”

“That explains the poetry. You work yourself into a delirium.” 

“Is that why I’m seeing you here, then? Because I’m delirious?” 

Lord Arum replies with another rattle, moving closer through the dark. “Your Rilla told me you were doing better, but I would hardly take a human’s word on such things.”

“You might have to,” Damien says. “Because I say so, as well.” 

“You don’t count,” Lord Arum says grudgingly, and he’s too drowsy for that to bother him.

“Did Rilla tell you how to find the infirmary? Or have you been peeking into windows all night looking for me?” 

“She might have.” That’s not all she did; the silver moonlight shows that the wounds from his fight with Angelo are bandaged, and his injured arm is in a sling– a rather awkward sling, considering that the arm isn’t immediately beneath a shoulder. 

His breathing comes easier now, and he looms over Damien’s bed with a nearly supernatural stillness– like a gargoyle, standing watch to frighten demons away. 

They sit in silence for a while, just listening to the sound of their breathing. It’s tranquil, except for Damien’s acute awareness of Lord Arum’s hand beside his hip and the fluttering within his own chest.

With a final resolution, he makes himself speak. “May I?”

It’s impossible to see Lord Arum’s expression in the dark, but his head cocks to one side in what seems like confusion. His grunt of assent is clear, though, and so Damien dares to take that hand in his and raise it to his lips. The texture of scales is strange, but not unwelcome. 

Lord Arum takes a breath– perhaps a gasp, or a sigh.

“Is that… alright?” Damien asks carefully. 

There’s a long moment as Lord Arum considers. “Yes.” After another long moment’s silence, he pulls their joined hands higher, and Damien feels thin lips brush experimentally against his knuckles.

Lord Arum’s rattle almost sounds like the clearing of his throat. “The sun will be rising soon. This is a dangerous place to be spotted, honeysuckle.” 

“Of course.” Damien’s cheeks are still hot. “Climb safely, Lord Arum.”

He starts toward the window, then pauses. “Just Arum, perhaps.” He doesn’t give Damien a chance to respond before he vanishes through the window.

Damien gazes out that window until long after the sun rises. His face is still turned toward it when the orderlies come in for the morning and find him asleep.

For the first time in far too long, rest brings him tranquility.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before Arum shows up at Damien's bedside, he and Rilla have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this entire thing as a response to a prompt, then I looked at the prompt right before I was going to put it into the queue, and I realized I’d 100% missed what the prompt was about.

By the time Rilla returns to her cottage that night, she’s exhausted. She spent hours in the keep, first explaining the details of Damien’s condition to the healers, and then accompanying Sir Angelo as he made his report to the Queen.

At least she got to visit Damien in the infirmary before she started home. She suspects that will be the only restful part of tonight. She hasn’t forgotten the attack that got her kidnapped in the first place. There’s no telling how much was destroyed in the struggle. With the door ripped off its hinges, it’s a sure bet that animals will have gotten in and rooted around in there. She’ll have to clean up the wreckage, inventory what’s lost, see if any of her experiments are worth salvaging, pray to the saints that the animals didn’t get into her larder and eat all her food. It’s going to be a long night, one way or another. She’d prefer if it wasn’t a hungry one, too.

So she’s understandably surprised when she reaches her cottage and finds the door in its frame. There are clear, obvious cracks where the wood was ripped in apart, but those cracks have been sealed with what looks like some kind of tree resin; it’s still slightly tacky to the touch, but its hold is firm and the door is solid. 

She narrows her eyes and listens: sure enough, there’s sounds of something coming from the other side of the house. As silently as she can, she sneaks around to look.

There’s a slight splash of a bowl being dipped into her rain barrel. A tall, now-familiar shape bends over her windowsill, carefully emptying the bowl over a row of drooping herbs. 

“There’s no point in sneaking,” he says, not looking up. “I can hear your heart beating from here.” 

She steps into the open. “It’s not exactly sneaking when it’s my house.” She should probably be frightened to have a monster in her garden, but it seems a little ridiculous to get anxious after she spent the day ordering him around. “Is there a reason you’re watering my flowers?”

“Because plants die if they’re not watered. And you’ve been indisposed.” 

The term she would use is kidnapped, but she’s not about to argue semantics. “I’m guessing you’re the one who fixed the door, too?”

He makes a noncommittal rattle that she takes as a yes.

“Thanks for that.”

“You did stop that oaf from killing me. I don’t enjoy leaving debts unpaid.” 

“Well, thanks anyway.” And because she might as well ask: “Anything get in here while I was gone?”

“I did find a few monkeys inside,” Arum says. “I assume they weren’t your pets?”

“Saints,” she whispers under her breath, already kneading her temples. It’s going to be a long night. “No, they weren’t.”

“Good. They’re long gone.” 

She doesn’t know whether he means that he chased them away or he ate them, and honestly, she doesn’t care.

She works herself back up. “How’s the arm?” She hasn’t missed the fact that it’s still folded against his chest. He only grunts. “I can take a look at it.” 

He eyes her warily. “Why?” 

“Because it’s the decent thing to do, for one thing. And because if you’re going to be involved with Damien, we might as well get along at least a little bit. And because you can pay off whatever debt that puts you in by helping me clean up my house.” 

“Fair enough,” Lord Arum grumbles, and he grudgingly follows her inside. It really is a mess, but most of it isn’t beyond saving. She manages to find some bandages and salves that escaped the worst of the damage.

She’s never examined a monster before, but she’s treated enough villagers who can’t afford the more expensive healers in the keep, and more than a few of them bring her their animals when they get sick or injured. Between all of that, she’s got at least a basic idea of what she should be looking for.

Lord Arum hisses in pain when she touches his injured arm, and his ruff rises menacingly, but he doesn’t pull away. That’s a good sign, at least. The arm is definitely damaged, but not entirely snapped– more likely it’s a crack in the bone. She splints it and sets it in a sling, just to be safe. There’s a broken rib, too, but there’s not much she can do for that except give him a tea to help with the pain. After that, she moves on to the cuts and bruises. 

“Sir Angelo and I told the Queen about you,” she says, brushing salve onto one of the larger gashes.

His eyes narrow and his frill rises menacingly.

“Don’t give me that look. It was going to happen eventually– Damien couldn’t tell a lie to save his life, and Sir Angelo is worse. Trust me, it’s better that she knows now than that she finds out they’ve been keeping this from her later.”

“How did she take that, I wonder?” 

“She’s not happy about it, but I’m pretty sure that woman hasn’t been happy about anything in years. Still, you helped rescue me, and you helped me with Damien’s leg. So she isn’t about to send the other knights after you. So there’s that.” 

One of his brow ridges rises slightly. “That is… surprising. I thought the nature of our… arrangement–”

“Which is why I didn’t tell her that part.” Rilla administers another slather of salve with perhaps more force than necessary. “She knows you exist, and she knows you and Damien are on good terms, and that’s all she needs to know. What her knights do after they’re relieved of duty is none of her damn business.” 

He watches her in silence for a thoughtful moment. “It is yours, though.”

“I would make a threat about what’s gonna happen to you if you hurt him, but I think Sir Angelo got that point across well enough.” 

He’s still eyeing her, edging around a question he doesn’t ask. She answers it anyway, though her focus is on bandaging the wounds.

“You know, all this time I was so worried about how things would work out between him and me. Don’t misunderstand– I love him more than anything. More than anyone. But I know the way he works. I know the kind of care he needs, and sometimes it’s more than I can give. And if you can give him what I can’t…” She sighs, pressing down the last of the bandages. “That’s all I want.”

“You mean aside from helping you clean your home?” Lord Arum asks.

“You’re not getting out of that,” she says, and the gravity of the previous moment clears like a fog. “A deal is a deal.”

“I had no intention of avoiding it,” he says. “I have my honor.” 

“You also have three working hands,” she says. “How are they with a broom?”


End file.
